Cherwell etc.

The gorge in the morning is dappled with green

And grey and the colours of life, drawn

In a sheaf of blue by the light-gold stream,

Pulling creepers in a glittering chain,

And pulling us six along all the same

In a single direction—here is pain.

  Minnows and minnows flash in the shadows

Like silver sparks, and water-boatmen skate.

Even the tidy spider high in the hollows

Keeps a web in the jagged slate;

Constellations in silk stretching over the face

With tiny dancing stars—but here is pain.

  Pressing over the water in a frozen cascade

The cliff shadows the trees which shadow the path,

Twisting in its rocky trunk a blade

Of quartz, which breaks and starts across the frame

Thrown up in a glance by ages of strain

In the centre of the world—but here is pain.

  Pain passes in a pulse through the heart

Like a breeze through the morning, rubbed between crags;

Whistling in the trees, between wood and bark,

Between blood and bone, soul and brain—

But relief comes whispering secret in a name

“Our true nationality is mankind.” 

― H.G. Wells

I

At dusk the mosque was almost entirely emptied. Mohsin walked with a spring in his step. The cancellation of his lecture had allowed him to attend morning prayers. This morning's service, he felt, he had connected with God in a way that he had never before. His eyes lit up: the streets of Leeds were like the promised land.

He had often wondered, given his private education and delicate Southern accent, how the Muslim community would accept him in this new area. At University he met people like himself. There was even another Pakistani in the Music department. The Islam Society was a resounding success run by Shias and Sunnis and there was never any dispute: the group more like friends united by common spirit than religious obligation.

As he walked the gentle tune of 'Liebestraum' reverberated in his mind. He imagined himself at the piano, his fingers caressing every note. The music itself God's and it flowed through him. With every chord he felt his heart pulsate with a vibrancy that no other experience awarded him. He thanked God for such opportunities; many of his faith did not move through life with such ease.

On his phone he had written a reminder for himself: "Finish Communist Manifesto". The realm of politics was, to him, a barren wasteland: a futile game of crooks and spin doctors. While raised in a liberal household, he did not vote and only watched Question Time in order to espouse some political knowledge in front of the girl who had caught his eye. Her name was Maria, she was a 26 year old Italian who had joined on a Cello scholarship. They had played many pieces together, yet she spent a lot of time in the student union and various Marxist groups. Whatever she said he agreed with. He had only once disagreed with her and that was about Islam.

After procuring a phone number Mohsi had managed to ask her to come with him to see a film. The romantic nature of the film, he hoped, would give him a chance to finally express to her his feelings. Despite his faith her atheism was so irrelevant to him, but he wondered whether he would have to make choices soon about his commitments. Wreaths of his excited breathe dissolved into the cool March air as he approached the town centre: his mind was still.

He looked back and saw that there was a large and noisy crowd assembling outside the mosque. They bore posters adorned with hateful slogans.

"Britain is not a Muslim country".

"Ban the Burkha."

"Leeds is not an Islamic dictatorship".

Their cries, though still some hundred metres away from him, sounded venomous. A few were advancing up the road.

He had read, in the newspapers, of the tragedy at Whitechapel. He knew well of the murders and the outcry they caused. He had seen his laws and practices demonised enough, vilified enough, for him to care about yet another incident springing up from the hateful depths of badly misinterpreted faith. A dull sickness overcame him whenever this discussion came up, whether it was in his overwhelmingly conservative school or amongst his friends at University. Some finger, directly or indirectly, was pointed at him; as if he had killed these men in the name of God.

"Go home"

He had not seen a group of three men turn the corner and walk up to him. He swivelled quickly to face them. He was not aware that he looked particularly Muslim: he had removed his robes and wore only his v neck jumper and black trousers.

"I said get the fuck out of our country"

He walked on, ignoring them. They're heads were shaven and they wore jeans and t-shirts. They encircled him, trying to provoke him into an action. He did not wish to speak for they would hear his accent and annoy him further.

He felt a sharp jolt in the back of his head. A tennis ball had ricocheted off his skull.

'How pathetic' he thought. ' Is that the best weapon they have?'

The crowd was advancing swiftly at an alarming rate. It angered him. He felt a fury rush through his veins: a defensive and dignified passion. He would shout at them. He would scream. They had no right to be outside his place of worship.

He picked up the tennis ball and threw it at the crowd, his aim enhanced by years of being his school's finest spin bowler. The three men who had confronted him were hassling another member of the mosque who was waving them away dismissively. It hit one of the protesters on the head. Profanities echoed into the mid-day sky. They ran for him.

II

After eventually awakening, Mohsi felt his skull. The bruises that had appeared on his head were not quite as painful as his headache. Sitting up in his bed he saw a young woman sitting in the chair, staring vacantly into space. She saw he had awoken and addressed him. "Mohsi, I'm so glad you've woken up. I'm Henrietta and I work here as a counsellor. Do you want to talk?" He rubbed his eyes and looked at the calendar. Five days had passed since the incident. He did not talk for three of them. Every word he spoke was an awkward stutter as if his body was shivering. "What do you want to know?" " Well. What did they say?" Mohsi sighed. He hated the mere repetition of their words. It made his insides tighten. " Just the usual stuff." " We want to know because we can find them Mohsi. We want to prosecute them." " Was beating me up not enough?" " Well, yes. But the press wants to know as well. We don't have to tell them anything if you don't want to."

Mohsi coughed and sighed skeptically. "They called me all the typical things: a terrorist, an illegal immigrant, a Paki..". Her face remained serene. "Okay. How do you feel when people say those things to you" Mohsi suddenly felt a wave of unbearable sadness pass through him. He did not know how to answer this question. Words were mere roundabouts of meaninglessness. They could not in any way evoke the pain inside his heart. He stuttered. "Alone".

The door opened and his Father walked in. He was in tears and obviously distressed. He looked at Mohsi, his head a wretched mess of scars and his arm fractured.

Alone.

In that moment there passed between father and son a most acute and precise understanding of this word. A word that Henrietta could not comprehend.

His father walked over to the bed and held his hand. "Mr. Idrisi. Would you like to be alone with him?". His father nodded and she left the room.

"So I see you can finally speak Mohsi" he said. " Yes da-" " Your mother had a job interview today. That's why she's not here. She visited yesterday but you were asle-." " Dad I want to leave the hospital."

His father sat back and looked out of the window at the grey Autumn day. The traffic was loud and audible and the red estates lined with fallen leaves. Summer had ended.

" I think you should stay. Your mind is not right." " My mind is right. I want to go back to the flat, and start going to lectu-." " Listen Mohsi I don't think we can stay in this country anymore."

Mohsi felt a pang of sadness for he knew that his Father would soon leave him.

"We cannot practice our faith here without being looked down on." " That's not true. They were just some yobs dad. It'll pass. All this shit. It will." " If God is as important to you as he is to me then we will leave." " But I grew up here. I can't just leave it in a puff of smoke. And go where? Lahore?!". Mohsi's voice had raised. "Mohsi we can have a good life somewhere else. Just not here. Nothing ever changes, no matter what they say about diversity. It's just as bad as when I grew up. We're not welcome. Look at the news. You're everywhere. You won't ever be the same again." Mohsi's tone had become more forceful. " I can't leave. Okay. I just can't. It will all be forgotten soon I have a life, I-I I'm nearly twenty. There's wonderful muslims in the University and wonderful Christians and wonderful Atheists and even a nice Mormon gir-" His Father raised his voice considerably. " I don't understand this Mohsi. Nine white men have beaten you up, screamed nationalism and racism in your ear and you still believe this place is some kind of haven for love and peace?! For fuck sake. You just don't get it. Your too young."

There was a silence, then his father touched Mohsi's head for the last time and a tragic smile broke onto his aged face. He got up and left the room and Mohsi was alone. He remembered Maria's voice on the phone to him. He remembered an argument they had about God and faith. They were sitting in a Starbucks in Leeds airport, before she departed for Florence. He was gazing into her impassioned eyes as she ranted at him for something he could not change.

"But if you believe in him there's so much you can't do. You can't swear, you can't drink, you can't have sex.. You limit your understanding of the world and your most basic desires. It's too repressive for me Mohsi. I couldn't do it." He was ignoring everything she said. "Will you take me to italy some day?" he asked. She was taken aback at how he appeared to ignore her words. "Perhaps."

The flight was announced. She picked up her bags. "Thanks for dropping me off Mohsi. I'll see you soon okay?" She hugged him and there was an infinite pause. Time was suspended and in that moment he knew of the million things he should have told her. He knew, so definitively, that she was all he wanted. He mustered some pathetic words: "It's a pity Maria" "What?" "I don't know. That we have to argue about this stuff." She looked at him. "Mohsi, please. I have a flight to catch."

She kissed him briefly on the cheek and fled him, disappearing into the crowd queuing up with passports: items of a vague patriotic association that he did not have. Her words hung in the air. He walked through the airport terminal aimlessly. He glimpsed a mother and her daughter embracing, both crying and talking in Arabic. He wondered if his mouth would ever utter such words to anyone other than God. The sterile whiteness of the airport hurt his eyes and he wanted to go home.

The drive was long, but he had no plans for the night.

Tightened lace straps and strong knots On my only walking boots – my fingers Slip and stick, soft enfevered, Bloodless under their own pull, While a quiet tremor runs Along the faultlines of my mind.

Is it impulse or influence Which bids me leave the sight Of the plushly red-toned room, And its books in levelled rows? Or The fear that inside me’s gone as quiet As their cold white spines pressed up Like senseless marble lovers Squared in the neatest hecatomb.

For it has risen like a heat First lapping low at the base of These our pillars of civility But swelling, quickening, Until its crackling buzz – a wire just beneath my jawline – Threatens to melt the cracked veneer We cast in vain over the Mute, and blind, and strong in us.

Here I am: bending every muscle To leave the sound of cement Creasing under point or wheel or heel, And not have to close my eyes To snuff the nightlights’ garish glow. I will walk away from neon signs And lifelessly gliding doors, I will let the urban ink roll from me In sooty oildrops down my back.

Now for the push, Through streets set out Like a maze of stunted snakes, Past pub-warm corners And over gritty rainpools, Towards the sharp yawn Of open space, The strong slap of Self-removal.

So the road dips and the plunge grows As I seek that other night-time, That dark resting whole and heavy, Liquid thickness on the land. Will the electric haze recede As you tunnel your way through? Little thing, little searcher, Burrowing slowly through the mass.

I have marched for many breaths now, Can feel the gravel mix with grass And my feet sometimes splay uneven, On this string of dotted domes Where the earth cambers its back In mounds like a trail of hardened fists Popping through the packed dirt path.

Here the cold is deeper, wider, Bears no hum of pipe and lamp. I must press further into it, Must drive myself in, steely needle, Foreign body. Steps pass like rain in sleep, While the lower lines of me are blurring I think, the lower lines of me are Blurring.

And these silent cows, Breathing boulders in the night, With eyes like dull grey coins And presences that surge sudden – All mottled bulk and latent menace – Are mute keepers of a gate Whose door I’ve never found, But always hear its hinges creaking.

The bridge looms up, narrow trenchway Over the tracks. Hugely humming lamps Sear through the cowed black trees In cornered cuts of quadrangle, Four eyes speared on each stake. They give the bright red cones their flicker As they stand arrayed, Sentinels inanimate For this outstretched theatre.

And the gnashing of stone on ore That I mistook for the rails’ cries Is really the work of orange-clad men: A string of bolts busy scraping spades Across the outgored ribs Of the trainway tracks. Something makes the metal nervous Fills the air like a sea of moths.

 An indigenous boy travels to the former village of Río Negro, flooded in 1982 by the Chixoy hydroelectric dam

"The story of the Río Negro massacre is not a nice one. From 1978 onwards, the government of Guatemala planned to build the Chixoy hydroelectric dam near Rabinal. The project would involve the flooding of certain areas historically populated by the Maya Achi. The project foresaw the relocation (either voluntary or not) of dam-affected indigenous communities. When hundreds of residents in Río Negro refused to relocate from their fertile valley, a campaign of terror which involved kidnappings and mass executions was waged against the community, largely by paramilitary and military officials. It is estimated that up to 440 Maya Achi were killed in the village of Río Negro alone. Jesús Tecú Osorio, a survivor of the massacres, now runs a centre above the former village of Río Negro (now flooded), where he teaches visitors about the history of this episode. The picture is of his son on a boat accessing the area with my group of visitors: the roads that led to the village have been flooded and the only access is now by boat."

Enter, smile, choose a face across the room, latch onto those two eyes – it is a thing that is done [everyone is busy, living quickly, chasing things and laughing, suitable instrument in hand].

It can’t be known, not yet, not until [some say] it is too late, that the one in this corner is waiting, waiting – for something even you could not predict.

That one is anticipating the moment of final understanding when the light [if there is any left] suddenly extinguishes itself.

That one is swimming in a dark pool far below [where you could never venture] watching the sun go up down and again up down [wondering if it is possible to pay to get off].

That one dreams of the past [if she sleeps]. When morning rears its rousing head, she feels her mind has run far [it has run backwards and trodden on everything it encountered there, in the place which does not move].

That one is building a house [where she can hide and know she is real]; a card-house of meaning which won’t fall down when she breathes.

That one is in love, though she does not know it, and will still smile back, because she is afraid [you can tell from the way she cries].

That one is counting inwardly, persuading herself she enjoys this game, the number game, monopoly for grown-ups [which she cannot win].

The corner is empty, it seems even she has joined the throng. The door is open now [to let in the air?] and we are analytic and crisp; no time for pondering. Let us discuss.

You strange igniting thing

From your silver tongue lightning forks

To slash along my spine that’s pressed

Up hard against the concrete wall,

And you have spun me into silk

A pulsing bulb of silk

Sinuous, fleshy, thickened and so

Unutterably fine, not even velvet, no, but oil,

Rarefied to the darkest blood of deeper earths,

You home in on the moving quick of me,

Until too volatile for swift escape, too

Scattered for any retreat. And

Under the pressure of your words

(their aiming fingers animate, I know):

It yields all, splitting me down,

Melting and musking at once

Morphing me slowly,

With the luxury of a knowing grip,

Into a strange ignited thing.

Rimbaud put down his pen

            to write without words

Rimbaud put down his pen

            to speak without sounds

Rimbaud put down his pen

            to escape the cage of lines

                        across the page

  Rimbaud put down his pen

            to live in days of perfume      

            to live in years of sound

            to live in the meaninglessness he found at the heart

                                                                        of eternity

  In putting down his pen

            Rimbaud

                                                                                                                            devient  devine

Letter from the Author

Dear Reader,

In December 1999 my grandfather died. This was a great tragedy since he had longed with genuine passion to pass alive into the twenty-first century, convinced that within it he might find new curiosities to behold. Though there had always been a certain bond of affection between the two of us, it was only several years before his passing that I had any notion of the extent of the collection that a lifetime had amassed. This book contains a description of some of the objects that came into my possession after his death. Though they remained a closely guarded secret during his lifetime, known only to those closest to him, it is fitting that a new millennium should see these wonders for itself.

For just under one hundred years, my grandfather had searched the globe for various objects that excited his imagination. Many of them are manmade, while others are natural; however, the most curious amongst them defy such simple categorization. In cataloguing this collection, I have tried to provide as much information as I can on each object. Whilst this may take the form of simple data collection, along the lines of weight and dimensions, I have also attempted to provide a more detailed description of the object in order to explain its origin or mechanics. The order in which I present them has no significance (I believe) and represents merely the haphazard manner in which I have approached the task. I hope this book will suffice as a fitting tribute to my grandfather. He was a cryptic man in life and so too, it seems, in death.

WJH

Lean my head back, quick close my eyes As all the running levels tilt Skywards, plunge up and up and up, Impossible rocket over my reeling Front: I am high off this height, Still pinned feather-light against Forceless nothing, plummeting, Plummeting, borne by this weight That somehow feels like flight.

Splitting through the impact of Emptiness, I scream and scream          Like a child mad with glee, Like a comet stripping past Itself, fusing and losing at once. Tight little star of tautened flesh, The air rips and nips at me, and I love it and fear it, squirm from The starkness of the speed, until The thought cracks through

My lightning brain Like faster lightning still: In this mindless flight Above earth and beneath light, I scream because I cannot stop, I joy because I ought to die.

Scribbling above that crotch in the fringe of my vision, the pen 

is reminding me I’ve paid for a label of carnal fixation where walls look

like ground-up enamel from over-clenching patients. Sweat

sticks in the clavicle cavity where I tap

my right thumb; I hook the left under one thigh, thinking fuck

my life while the Prozac fairy informs me I’m bent

on my own destruction when really I’m just bent

as hell from an Absolut mess. This pen

pal from Hades wants dialogue over DSM distance but I’m just a fuck-

up or maybe down because I’m still not sure which direction. Look

out! There’s no telling how long I can keep up this tap

dance along the River Styx before I finally sweat

off the fever of guilt and take back the sweat-

shirt you kept. Whoops, now I’ve bent

the pamphlet in my lap so I won’t have to watch Sir Doctor tap

that ballpoint pen

and over-look

how when I used to fuck

you hard, it was just you, and only to prove I could. Well, fuck

those catatonic after-nights light with toothpaste sweat

like mint grit on our gums when we pretended to look

our best and taste cleaner, limbs bent

to support our angles inside a holding pen

for Cytherean performers – how could I not tap

out? I offered myself and you offered me water from the tap,

the unclasped bra grasping a polite cluster-fuck.

You swore the sword is flightier than the pen

before I confessed to biology, yet who stayed? No sweat!

I said it like in the movies. But I craved a Charming bent

over me, too, and look

what happened when you caught me taking a look

and then accused me of wanting to “tap

that”. I reel in the lonely visceral, bent

out of shape after you implored me to go fuck

myself, which I have ever since in a mechanical sweat

with my diagnosis and a clean pen.

So I ask does it look like I give a fuck

when I tap into emotions but forgo the cold sweat

to say I’m merely bent on plain penetration?

Will they ever put me on a plinth in a square To mark my most famous victory? No. I’d have to lose not just an arm but an eye And eventually die Which is something I plan not to do. Besides, the most that I ever won Was the hurdles, and that by default, Since the athlete who raced out in front Tested red for all sorts, A shock to us all (We were children, of course, As was everyone, once).

The cheat was expelled in the end And good riddance to him; We were not on great terms, And he made it his personal aim To destroy my athletic career, Since he thought I was solely to blame For the scandal that got him kicked out.

The truth hovers over; I never ran again, But it might as well have been choice; I took no comfort competing at school And it wasn’t the cold, or the noise, But the fact That I always lost out in the end; Be it rugby, or girls, or cards, It was always too hard to be sure If a fellow you thought was your friend Would remain so and keep, independent Of damage you might one day do.

Tradition

We always have...we always have.

And so it begins, a collective invoked

What are we without tradition? 

Without our heritage? What can we claim 

that is uniquely ours?

Nothing, perhaps. I was raised 

as your Chinese daughter under British rule. I am British, by virtue

of my passport. Which history should I claim?

Which traditions should I declare as sacred?

I have also lived in America - land of the free

and the oppressed. People ask me: 

where are you from? New York? Boston? I wonder: where do I belong? 

With years of Chinese New Years 

spent abroad, of Christmas and Easter

spent at home. Of Chinese calligraphy and  English poetry and national histories 

that cleave to one another like Siamese twins.

Of mothers telling us we need to be married

before we turn thirty, of feminist friends  with disdainful smiles.

Perhaps I am too greedy 

in wanting to claim all these

as my own. Perhaps my tradition  is that of the sun beating down upon the earth.

Of the moon coating landscapes in its sheen of silver.

Of rainfall, trees whispering,  and the waves' endless song. 

My local library is a twofold oddity: it has more librarians than visitors, yet no discernible system of ordering its shelves. Entering, a visitor might find six or seven of the staff sitting around chatting, presumably, pensively, asking each other “what was it we were supposed to do with all these papery things? Were we supposed to sit on them? Use them as fuel? Refrigerate them?”, each shaking their heads in turn. Confused by this, the reader might be even more puzzled to find over on the shelves, How to Train your Dragon in the animals and pets section, Mein Kampf in the life improvement section, or Carol Anne Duffy in the poetry section. Arranging books ad hoc isn't all bad. It means that, even once you have searched the section where anyone whose alphabetical knowledge (and GCSE results) extends higher than the letter 'U' would have placed the book you are looking for, you still stand a chance of finding it in other areas of the library. This is how I came across the Penguin compilation Ibn Fadlan and the Land of Darkness: Arab Travellers in the Far North (sandwiched upside down between Bridget Jones and Angus, Thongs, and Full-frontal Snogging).

While it cannot claim to be rightfully placed between these two masterpieces, this small volume is a fascinating insight into the mind of a man who travelled a vast distance in a time when the world must have seemed much larger. That man, Ibn Fadlan, set out from Baghdad in 922 AD, and journeyed through central Eurasia on a diplomatic mission, meeting on the way several semi-Islamic, semi-pagan tribes and a group of Vikings on the Volga River. The diary he kept both before and during this encounter is an eloquent and meticulous account of these peoples' cultural practices, and of how they differed from his own. To travel to other societies is to explore unknown regions of the mind as well as of the earth, to discover that people of other countries have a different understanding of the world in many slight and subtle ways. The old saying that 'the past is another country, they do things differently there' may be a cliché but Fadlan's journal makes it obvious that it is true; he allows the reader a glimpse not only of another land and another time but also of another way of thinking.